


Save The Whale(r)s

by Troodon



Series: I'll Drown Them In Blood For You, My Dear [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Calla is an enabler, Cedric is done with this shit, Cedric is the smol gay baby brother the assassin family needed, Dirty Talk, Fugue Feast, Gen, Gerome is made of toothpicks and salt, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Thomas looks like Chris Evans, Underage Prostitution, improper use of a banana, no one has a happy backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9086800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troodon/pseuds/Troodon
Summary: Snippets and world-building from Legacies. Bits and pieces from other povs, Whaler backgrounds, etc.Let me know if there's anything you want to see.





	1. Chapter 1

Calla and Munchkin transversed from rooftop to pipe to rooftop, carrying the box of supplies gingerly. She couldn't believe the Empress' generosity. The amount of medical supplies here was utterly amazing. She knew there'd be enough to keep them safe from the plague for at least a month. There were definitely enough bandages for a small army, let alone a gang of fifteen. Twenty-three if you counted all the pups.

Calla slipped through the sewer entrance, making sure to keep the box safe from krusts and sewer slime. The last thing she needed was to contaminate the medical supplies and face a lecture from the combined forces of Rinaldo and Rulfio. The brothers could out-shame even the toughest aunt. 

Oh, but the Empress! She was both inhumanly elegant and stately, and so utterly human in the way she treated her bodyguard! Calla sighed, then regretted the inhale as she got a lungful of sewer-stink.

Once the two got into the base, Calla led Munchkin to the makeshift infirmary they'd set up upon moving in.

“Calla,” Munchkin said, “do you really need me to help carry this to Galia? She's terrifying.”

“Buck up, my lad,” Calla told him, despite secretly agreeing. “She's not so terrible. Mostly. Just don't talk to her and you'll be right as rain”

Calla pushed open the door, ignoring Munchkin muttering, “What does that even _mean_? How is rain right? It doesn't make sense!”

“Hey, Galia! Get your nose out of that Overseer's guts and help sort these meds!”

The Whalers had someone who was a sort of surgeon/medical officer/torturer. That was Galia. She was a vicious and sadistic fighter. She'd slice at hamstrings and bellies with impunity. Calla liked to put a hole in her enemy's head: nice, quick and clean. But Galia seemed to feed off of her enemy's suffering. While she never turned that sadistic streak on her fellow Whalers, they couldn't help but feel uneasy around someone so at home with causing lasting damage and pain to all her opponents.

The Tyvian looked up from where she was indeed cutting into a (hopefully) dead Overseer. There was a speckling of blood on her cheek, like a spray of sanguinary freckles.

“Ah, Calla,” Galia said, blinking myopically. “There is a problem?”

“We just got a bunch of medical supplies in,” Calla explained patiently. You had to be prepared to repeat yourself when the Tyvian was working. She had a tendency to forget the world around her existed.

“Oh? Bring them here. We will sort and place.”

“Aye,” Calla agreed, “let's go, lad.” Munchkin gulped and edged over to the nearest cot. Slipping the bag from his shoulder, he began sorting the bandages and elixirs. Calla gently placed the box next to him and pried it open again. Galia gasped delicately when she saw the riches of elixir inside.

“Calla! Who did you kill to get this much elixir,” she demanded. Her long, slender fingers danced over the faintly glowing vials.

“The Empress gave them to us,” Calla told her, bracing herself for the coming questions.

“Ah, good,” Galia said. “It is good we got what we need from her before she dies.”

“We already took the contract to kill her,” Calla reminded her. Galia blinked at her.

“Oh, yes. How silly of me. It was the child that died, yes? Messy.”

Calla suppressed a wince at the callous words. Beside her, she could see Munchkin flinch.

“Ah, yes,” Calla told her. Galia didn't even look up from the sorting.

“It is a problem that she died,” Galia tutted. “Daud broke. He has become weak. I would take over, but I am so busy fixing broken Whalers I have no time for broken leader. What about Lurk? There's a strong lady. Has she killed him yet?”

“No,” Calla said, swallowing the rage that surged at the memory of Lurk's betrayal. “No, Daud banished her. She's gone.”

“See? Weak,” Galia waved a dismissive hand. “I would have cut her throat and fed her to the hagfish. Now she can come back with more foes. I suppose I will have to take over, someday when there is less work. How is Rinaldo's leg? Tell him to stay off of it, that arse-brain will cripple himself if he doesn't.”

Calla promised she'd tell him, and left Galia to her tasks. As soon as the door closed behind her and Munchkin, the kid sagged against her side.

“Why is she always so scary,” Munchkin breathed. Calla pulled him into a side-hug.

“Aye, she's terrifying,” she said, “but she'd never do anything to hurt another Whaler. She really does care about us.”

“How are you so sure?” Munchkin demanded, leaning against her. Calla squeezed his thin shoulders.

“I know people,” she assured him. “All good captains know their crew.”

Munchkin beamed up at her. He'd put on weight since they found him, half-starved in a gutter, his once fine clothes stained and torn. He was still too thin, but at least the extra rations they'd snuck him had helped the teen fill out. Calla ruffled his hair, affectionately.

“Aye, lad,” she said to his unsaid question. “You're my crew just as much as anyone. Now get. I have to go report to Rin.”

Calla watched the kid vanish in a swirl of shadow and Void, and went to find the master assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galia is one of the Whalers that stays behind. Since the Flooded District isn't exactly easy to get around without their transversal abilities, she and the others left and started up the assassin racket again somewhere else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for Gerome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is a 100% canon image of Gerome](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/wittyusernamed/155226918961)

Gerome was grinning as he steered the boat back to the hidden docks in Rudshore. The Empress of the Goddamn Isles wasn't some prissy, spoiled choffer. She'd even invited him to the fuckin' Imperial Gallery! He couldn't wait to see the Munchkin's face when he told the pup. Actually, Gerome mused, the pup should come along. He'd be fuckin' chuffed at getting to talk with the real, Void-damned Empress.

Kid also needed to learn some fuckin' culture. For a former nob, he sure was ignorant of the Void-damned greats.

Charlie would have loved this.

Gerome tugged his locket out from under his shirt, lifting the whaler mask, and pressed a kiss to the tarnished silver. Void, he missed her with all his shrivelled, black heart. He tucked the locket back under his uniform, giving the spot a light pat. Two years, and it still fuckin' hurt like a bitch.

Gerome slipped into the common area. Right near the kitchens, it was full of chairs, benches, tables and cards. Lighting a cig, he looked for the others in his squad. Calla wasn't there, but he could see Bran's bulk against the lights from the makeshift kitchen. Gerome ambled over, making sure to scuff his boots against the already-scuffed floor. It hadn't taken long for everyone to learn that sneakin' up on Bran was a fuckin' bad idea. Kid was fucked up. Void-damned Overseers. Gerome fuckin' hated those self-righteous pricks.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted. Bran still twitched and turned so his back wasn't exposed to Gerome. Outsider, he ached for the giant fucker.

“Hello, Gerome,” Bran replied. Kid was so soft-spoken, kept his broad-ass shoulders hunched and his eyes down. Some of Jen's pups had that same posture.

Gerome crouched to give his customary greeting to Prudence, Bran's partner-beast.

“Where's the rest of the beasts,” he asked, scratching the dog behind the ears. It twisted, pushing its neck into the scritches. Gerome grinned, and scratched harder.

“Dog is with the acolytes,” Bran began to list off, turning back to chopping up some hagfish. Gerome pulled a face at the term. He hated when Bran forgot he wasn't an Overseer anymore. “Fluffy and Dinner are out patrolling.” Dinner was the one wolfhound Gerome had named. He fuckin' loved the expression on Munchkin's face when he'd won the right to name the beast in the most vicious battle of cards the Whalers had ever seen.

When Daud had brought Bran to the Whalers, he'd immediately started training the four stray wolfhounds left over from the Overseer attack. One was Prudence, who had become Bran's beast. One Bran recognised, he said it had been someone else's, but Bran never said who. From the look on his face when asked, Gerome assumed whoever Dog's owner had been, he'd been a real fuckin' prick. The other two wolfhounds were found guarding dead Overseers after they'd gone and sent the masters to the fuckin' Void, where they belonged. Fuckers should never have tried to invade. Galia was going to put the beasts down, but apparently Munchkin got in her way, and they escaped. Pup was too soft-hearted. Gerome wasn't there at the time, being too busy being fuckin' unconscious from some smug Overseer asshole's “hospitality”. Fuckin' prick biters.

Apparently, Bran had showed up, took one look at the snarling beasts, and said a string of nonsense words. That had shut the dogs up, and they'd slunk over to Bran, meek as prize-fuckin'-lapdogs.

“You seen Munchkin?” Gerome asked. Bran dumped the hagfish into a pot bubbling with something delicious. Gerome sniffed appreciatively. “Shit, Bran. That smells fuckin' amazing. What'd you cook up this time?”

“Hagfish, some spices, garlic, wine, and butter.”

Gerome grinned, standing up to peer into the pot, holding his cig out to the side so the ash wouldn't fall in.

“See, Bran, this is why you're my favourite,” he told the kid, jostling him gently with a shoulder. Bran flushed, and Gerome was gifted one of the kid's incredibly rare smiles.

“Ah, Cedric was in a short while ago,” Bran said. “He's likely in the barracks with Calla. She said something about being overcome by the Empress' good looks and giving nature.”

Gerome laughed his hoarse, barking laugh. “Oh shit,” he said, grinning, “she must have fuckin' swooned. Wait 'til I tell her what Her Majesty did.” Gerome leaned against the counter, watching Bran cook. He twisted to blow cigarette smoke away from the kid and the dog. “She fuckin' jumped off a Void-damned _roof_! It was glorious! She just-” he mimed Jessamine's plunge off and transversal, making the appropriate sound effects. “I thought she'd be another stuffy choffer, but she's actually pretty alright.”

He was going to leave out the bit about where she took the brand and marked that asshole Campbell herself. It wasn't something the kid needed to hear. Months after joining them, the kid still had the burn scars all over his face.

Fuckin' Abbey bastards.

“Anyways, I'm gonna find Munchkin. Pup should still be hangin' around Calla. See you in a bit.”

Gerome ambled away, cig still held between his teeth. He passed 'Naldo, who was limping down the corridor to the common room. Gerome tipped a mocking, imaginary hat at the Whaler, getting a middle finger and the usual “Fuck off, Gerome” in return.

Ah, life just wouldn't be the same without pissin' someone off.

“Calla, my Morlish, pirate rose!” Gerome declared, flinging open the door. “Have I got a story for you.”

“Bet you five coin mine's better,” Calla retorted. She was sitting on the barracks floor with Munchkin, both cleaning their gear.

“I'll take that bet,” Gerome said, slumping down into a leggy sprawl across from them. “You gotta hear what the Empress did.”

“Same,” Calla said, grinning.

“Alright, I'll bite,” Gerome said. “What'd she do with you?”

“Well, first she gave us an entire box of elixirs-”

“Wait, fuck, really?”

“Yeah, now stop interrupting. Then, and this is the best part, she thought I was attractive!”

“You gonna try an' fuck her?” Gerome asked, amused. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Munchkin blanch. That never got old.

“Nah, I'm fair certain she's with the Lord Protector. The rumour has t'be true. And you know I'm seeing Amelie.”

She paused, smiling a sappy smile. Gerome made a disgusted face at Munchkin, but the two of them had already agreed that Calla in love was the most adorable thing in the world. The former pirate queen was reduced to flowers and poetry whenever her lover was mentioned.

“Have you seen her recently?” Munchkin asked. Calla turned that soft smile on him.

“Yes, and I got t'see her newest project,” she said. “She's trying to carve a lifelike rose out of stone. It's even got the veins and everything.” Gerome perked up with interest.

“Damn, like fuckin' Russfelt? Good for her! That's fuckin' hard to do without breakin' the rock.”

Calla beamed, proud on her lover's behalf.

Gerome cleared his throat, stubbing out his cig and lighting another. “So that it?”

“Why, do you have something better?” Munchkin asked. Gerome grinned around his cig.

“Damn fuckin' straight I do,” he declared, proudly. “I got to see her Imperial Highness fuckin' _crush_ an Overseer, and do all her own dirty work. _And_ I got an invite to the fuckin' Imperial Gallery. Munchkin, you're coming with me.”

“Wait, what?”

“Forget the gallery,” Calla said, “What'd she do?”

“She fuckin' jumped off a roof, transversed mid-fall, and then knocked out a Void-damned Overseer! It was fuckin' glorious, Cal. And then she took out the fuckin' High Overseer like it was nothing.”

“Did she kill him?” Munchkin asked, leaning forward, cleaning forgotten.

“Nah, worse than that,” Gerome told them, smirking around his cig. “She fuckin' branded him with this special mark they got. Any Overseer with it gets exiled an' killed on sight. Isn't that fuckin' great?”

Calla sighed. “If I wasn't happily dating Amelie, I'd bury my face betwee-”

“ _Calla_ ,” Munchkin interrupted, looking horrified. The two older Whalers cackled at his flush.

Gerome slung an arm around the pup's neck, tugging him in for a tussle. The door opened and Bran stepped in carrying a tray loaded with bowls, Prudence loping through after him.

“Gerome told you?” he asked, sitting on the bed. Cedric leaned back against his knee, trying to avoid Prudence's tongue. Brannon pulled the same startled expression he gets whenever someone voluntarily touches him.

“That the shit you were cookin'?” Gerome asks eagerly. Bran nods and passes the dishes around. Everyone tucked in eagerly, making noises of approval. Cal sounded incredibly impressed with the food. All too soon, they were all lying on their backs and sides, full of the best damn cooking.

“Fuckin' Void, Bran,” Gerome said, hauling himself upright to sprawl on the bed beside the Whaler's. “That was fuckin' amazing. You gotta make that again.”

“Ugh,” Calla said. “Tomorrow. I'm going to lie down for a bit. Got patrol tomorrow morning.”

Bran started gathering up the dishes, shoving Prudence's long nose out of one of the bowls.

“Night,” Munchkin called, staggering up and flopping onto the bunk above Bran's. “I'm going to call it a night, too. Gerome, you're with Calla tomorrow, right?”

Gerome grunted an affirmative, stripping off his shirt and trousers for sleep.

“I wonder if she's always like this,” he heard Munchkin muse. Gerome was confused, before he figured out the pup was talking about the Empress.

“Come with me tomorrow an' you'll find out,” Gerome mumbled, closing his eyes and going to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Fixed some accidental continuity errors and misspelling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas gets some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a year or so before the events of Legacies.

Thomas surveyed the room he'd purchased. While he had managed to call in a favour and get it for a discounted price, it was still rather expensive. The bed against the wall was narrow, but serviceable. He double checked to make sure the locks were sturdy, that sightlines into the room were obscured, and that his gloves were in place. The bone charm against disease was slipped under the mattress.

Thomas nodded decisively and slipped out of the room, unfolding his highwayman's mask and tying it on. He ignored the voice in his mind that scoffed at his redundant precautions. It sounded irritably like Gerome.

His safety measures were completely reasonable. The last thing he needed was to somehow end up compromising the Whalers. Even though the Feast was “outside time”, it didn't necessarily mean it was safe.

Thomas opened the door to the main floor of the inn, and was greeted by a wall of sound and light. Revellers were already drinking and dancing. And, he added with a wince, doing things that they'd certainly feel the next day. Candlesticks were certainly not meant to be used in such a way. And was that a stuffed _wolfhound_? Shaking his head, he prowled out onto the street.

Music played, loud and overlapping with other streets. Banners hung from windows and lampposts. Firework detonated overhead. The part of Thomas that was always working mused that they would make excellent cover for gunfire.

As Thomas searched, he lifted a skewer from a drunk, and a coinpurse from another. Thomas let one half-naked woman close, letting her gripping her by the hips as he sucked a mark on neck, eyeing the clasp to her expensive gold necklace. He stroked a gloved hand up her bare spine and neatly undid the clasp, nipping her throat to disguise the sensation of the necklace leaving her possession, then spun her into the welcoming arms of another.

It didn't do to fall out of practice, after all.

Thomas felt eyes on him. This wasn't unusual, especially during Fugue. He knew he was a handsome man; broad-shouldered, and in possession of a fine ass. As he pulled a burly man in for a kiss, he glanced over the crowd, using the other man for cover.

There.

A man, thin but muscular, was watching Thomas work the crowd with undisguised amusement. As soon as he saw Thomas looking, his smirk grew and he sauntered over. Part of Thomas' mind assessed the newcomer.

Nice clothes, but military quality. Measured step and high situational awareness meant he had known combat. His clothes were cut to hide the breadth of his shoulders, but the cunning look in those sharp eyes said it was intentional. Lastly, the older man moved like a predator amongst the unsuspecting flock. Thomas always had a weakness for dangerous, older men. Thomas disentangled himself from his target.

“Excuse me,” the stranger said, neatly stepping into the space left by the burly man. He advanced into Thomas' space, backing him against the wall of a building.

“That was a nice bit of work with the necklace,” he murmured, leaning in to nip at Thomas' jaw. “You're not even trying to hide what you are, aren't you.”

Thomas chuckled and tilted his head back, letting the man nibble his way along his throat.

“Fugue exists outside the law,” he reminded his admirer. The man laughed outright, sliding a hand down to cup Thomas' arse and tug them hip-to-hip. Thomas bit back a moan as he felt the man's erection hard against his own.

“That wasn't a complaint,” the man growled. “You're quite the professional, and seeing someone so good at their job is always a turn-on. And I do so like to watch someone who's so good with their hands.” He ground their erections together, then stepped back. “Please tell me you have a room.”

“This way,” Thomas said, guiding the man back to the inn.

“What do I call you?” Thomas asked. The stranger smirked and looked sidelong at him.

“What, you want to know the name to beg?” he asked with a frankly ridiculous eyebrow waggle. Thomas rolled his eyes.

“Yes, exactly,” Thomas said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The two circumvented the crowd in the inn's main floor, and climbed the stairs to Thomas' room. He made sure he went first, ensuring the man had a good view of his arse.

As soon as the door was shut and locked behind him, the man was on him.

“I want to ride you,” Thomas growled, manhandling the stranger to the bed. The stranger groaned and let his head fall back to the pillows.

“Martin,” the stranger said, removing his shirt, and starting on his trousers. “You can call me Martin.”

Martin ground his erection against Thomas' arse, making Thomas fumble the buttons on his own shirt. Finally wrestling his shirt off, he leaned over Martin in a position he knew showed off his muscular back and shoulders, and grabbed the vial of lubrication from the floor. He tugged off his right glove, dribbled some on his fingers and reached behind himself.

“Wait.” Martin caught Thomas' arm. Thomas tensed and directed a narrow-eyed look at the other man.

“I am not doing this without adequate preparation,” he warned. Martin waved that concern aside like it was nothing.

“I meant I wanted to watch.” His smile grew predatory. “I do so enjoy a show.”

Thomas felt his face grow warm, hoping the mask hid at least some of his blush. He rose and let Martin sit up against the head of the bed, turning around himself and arching his back slightly. He glanced over his shoulder to see Martin with his trousers open and cock out, appreciatively eyeing Thomas' arse.

“By the Outsider, you have a damn fine arse,” he said. Thomas tilted his head up so that Martin could see his smirk.

Thomas rolled his head back with a moan as he slid a finger inside himself. Rolling his hips, he eased another in and fisted his cock. Another glance over his shoulder told him Martin was watching with dark eyes, and a hand on his own cock.

“I have an idea,” Thomas purred, watching the older man stroke himself. “Why don't I take you in my mouth while I get myself ready for your cock.”

Martin's hips twitched. “Yeah, yeah, come here.”

Thomas crawled up the bed to bite at Martin's hipbone. Blunt fingers threaded into his short hair and Martin tugged him gently towards where his hand was holding himself steady. Thomas licked his lips to wet them and mouthed over the head. Martin inhaled shakily above him. Thomas suckled lightly at the head before suddenly dipping down and taking nearly the entire thing into his throat and humming.

“Fuck!” Martin cried out. Thomas pulled off, giving little kitten licks along the way, tonguing at the vein on the underside, before plunging back down. A dry, calloused finger traced around the sensitive skin where Thomas was fucking himself. Thomas whined.

“Shit,” Martin swore. “Fuck, you're good at that. I hope you're ready, 'cause I can't take much more of this.” Thomas smirked around Martin's dick, and pulled off entirely. He slicked himself up with the leftover lubricant.

Martin slid down the bed so that he was lying flat on his back, and guided Thomas' hip down to his prick. Thomas whined, sinking down in slow bursts. He paused when he was fully seated on Martin's cock, panting and sweating at the burning stretch.

“Oh, fuck, you're so tight,” Martin hissed, every muscle in his body being held rigid in the effort to not thrust. Thomas appreciated the effort, or would if he wasn't completely focussed on the full sensation. Fuck, Martin felt thicker than he looked.

Thomas braced one hand on Martin's sternum and gave a single, experimental roll of his hips. His lips parted in a silent “Oh”. He rolled his hips again, trying to find the right angle. When lightning shot up his spine, he cried out and began to ride Martin in earnest.

“Void, look at you,” Martin said, stroking a hand down Thomas' pecs and abs to wrap around his cock. “You look like someone cast you out of bronze. You're Void-damned gorgeous. So good on my cock, huh? I'd like to see you on there for hours.”

Thomas whined, speeding up his thrusts. He didn't peg the man for a dirty talker, but damn it was good.

Thomas could feel the tickle of sweat trickling down his spine and between his pecs. His thighs were trembling with a sweet ache as his orgasm built.

“Close,” he warned, slamming down on Martin's cock before fucking up into his fist.

“Yeah,” Martin breathed. “Come on. I want to see it. Bet you look gorgeous when you come.”

A few more frantic thrusts and Thomas threw his head back, crying out as white overcame his vision, pleasure spiking like a knife through him.

There was a whirling, disorienting moment, and Thomas found himself on his back, Martin between his legs. The older man grabbed Thomas' thigh and put it on his shoulder. Martin flashed him a shark's smile, quipped, “Brace yourself, lad”, and started to thrust powerfully into the Whaler.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Thomas screamed, squirming on the bed. He reached up to brace himself against the headboard as Martin's thrusts shoved him up the bed. He closed a hand around himself and began jerking himself frantically, gritting his teeth as oversensitiveness became pleasure again. As Martin's powerful thrusts grew erratic, he still made sure to rub against Thomas' prostate every time. All too soon, Martin grunted and stilled. The sensation of the older man filling him with his spunk sent Thomas over the edge, and with a cry he came as well.

The two lay panting together for a time. Martin's face was pressed against the side of Thomas', and he could feel how sticky with sweat they were. Finally, he rolled off of Thomas.

“You have a washbasin, or am I using the sheets?” he asked. Thomas rolled out of the bed and brought the washbasin and cloth back to Martin, ignoring how the older man leered at the view.

“You never told me what to call you,” Martin said. He handed Thomas the used washcloth so he could clean himself up.

“...Montgomery,” Thomas said, using his old surname. He never used it anymore, so it made a good alias.

“Well, Montgomery,” Martin said, laying back on the bed. “Do you have plans for the rest of Fugue Feast? Aside, of course, from stealing everything shiny?”

“No. And I only steal valuable shiny things. I am, as you said, a professional.” Thomas flashed him a dry smirk.

“Well, then,” Martin said, tugging Thomas down to lay with him. “Give me a short nap, and we'll see about reversing the positions, hm? It's been a while since I've had a nice cock up my ass, and you do have a very nice cock.”

Thomas laughed. “I'm flattered. All right, you have yourself a deal.”

As Martin closed his eyes, Thomas decided this was going to be a Fugue well-spent.


	4. If You Give A God A Banana...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Corvo tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By request, for Drea.
> 
> I will never look at a banana without imagining this scene, ever again. And if I have to suffer, so do you.

One thing Jess always said she liked about Corvo, was his emotional honesty. Corvo thought it was just common sense to actually communicate with his lover, instead of expecting her to magically gain the ability to read minds while he wasn't looking. And while he may not be the most observant when it came to matters of the heart, (he still was shocked whenever Jess pointed out a new admirer), he did know what Jess looked like when she found someone attractive.

Corvo was initially wary of the Outsider. The god was cryptic, and seemed to be far less interested in him than in Jess. Well, Corvo couldn't blame him. Jess was truly one-of-a-kind, loving a commoner from Serkonos, and not only treating him as an equal, but also trusting him with every vulnerability. She burned with a beautiful, white-hot fire; brilliant and daring, regal and austere. He loved her with every scrap of his heart and soul.

Despite having heard stories of the god's unpredictable nature, Corvo was still shocked speechless when the Outsider asked him about courting Jess. Though he wasn't nearly as blunt about it.

“She's slept with others, you know,” a cool, detached voice drawled, startling Corvo badly from his dream of training.

“Yes,” Corvo said, wary. “We have an agreement.”

“It doesn't seem like you get much out of this 'agreement',” the Outsider mused, watching Corvo continue through his forms. “Why do you bother?”

Corvo breathed out harshly on a sharp, overhead swing. “Because I love her.”

“You don't think she's just using you?”

Corvo shifted into a defensive stance. “I knew that she had room in her heart to love many people at once before we became lovers. Even though she loves easily, it doesn't mean she loves any less.” He spun and slashed at the air behind him.

The Outsider caught the blade easily with a bare hand, stopping it like it was a gentle tap, not a sharp blade swung at full strength.

The god leaned in, staring unblinkingly at Corvo. “Even if the one she loves is much greater than you? More powerful? It doesn't make you insecure?”

Corvo met that endless black gaze with a steady stare.

“I trust her with every vulnerability I have,” he calmly told the god. “I'm not a man to love easily, and so entirely. Jess is my one and only. Our relationship is built on that foundation, and it is unshakable.”

The Outsider stared at him, and for a moment, Corvo thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty crack that blank mask. Then he was gone, and Corvo awoke to the sense that something had changed in their relationship.

After, once the god was rescued and revealed to be human, powerless and blind, Corvo found himself liking the dry, sarcastic, flirtatious man the Outsider turned out to be. Their budding friendship grew quickly, surprising both with its suddenness. While the Outsider didn't seem much interested in affairs of the heart, beyond a theoretical sense, Abantes took much delight in trying to get Corvo to blush and stutter.

He was also as imperious as a cat.

“Corvo, your guest is dying of hunger,” Abantes drawled, leaning against Corvo's side as he checked on how well Abantes' wounds had healed. “I thought I smelled a fruit bowl nearby. Fetch me something from it?”

Corvo sighed, steadied Abantes back on his feet, and grabbed the first fruit to meet his fingers, placing it in the fallen god's lap.

He didn't realize his mistake until an uncharacteristic silence fell.

Corvo frowned, breaking off his inspection to peer up at Abantes' face. As soon as he caught sight of the plantain, his stomach dropped.

With a slow, sultry smirk on his face, Abantes traced a finger up the curve of the fruit, circling the top until he gently pressed a nail into the soft skin. Then he slowly began to peel the plantain. Corvo had never seen anyone turn peeling a fruit into a filthy act, but there Abantes was, stripping the fruit of its skin like he was revealing an entirely different object.

Slowly, pale lips closed around the tip of the plantain. Abantes hummed out a low moan of pleasure as more of the fruit slid into his mouth. A little bit withdrew, then he gently broke off a chunk and his long lashes fluttered shut. Abantes chewed and swallowed that bite, and then a pink tongue darted out to lick clean his lips. Corvo found himself frozen to the spot, watching the most sensual eating of a plantain he had ever seen.

As the last bit of plantain disappeared into the fallen god's mouth (head tilting back revealing a slender, pale throat fuck FUCK this should not be so arousing it was a Void-damned _plantain_ and Abantes was being so over-the-top ridiculous), Abantes slid one slender finger into his mouth, sucking it clean. The faint smirk on those lips said the fallen god knew exactly what he was doing, and was enjoying the hell out of Corvo's reactions, but Corvo couldn't find it in himself to care. Outsider's _cock_ \-- waitshitnothelpful _fuck_ \-- this was the most ridiculous, cliche thing he'd ever seen. He needed to leave. Now. Immediately. Definitely before Abantes knew how badly this was affecting him.

“You're fine! I mean, very-- Yes! Good! I'll... see you in a bit!” Corvo inwardly cringed at how high and panicky his voice was sounding. “Goodbye, I need to... Jessamine.”

He fled out the door, ignoring the cheerful, “Do try not to combust, my dear!” from Abantes.

He was never going to live this down.


	5. Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a series of the Whalers getting recruited. Thomas is the first

Daud slipped into the target's home. He was here to kill an affluent banker who had caused quite a few people to lose their homes. Their sources said that the target liked to enjoy certain “company” to unwind after a long week.

Daud perched on a chandelier to watch a guard go past, then transversed to railing of the floor above. Seeing no one, he crept over to the bedroom door and peered through the keyhole. He could just barely see the edge of a tousled bed. A slender arm hung over the edge. Whoever its owner was, was clearly asleep. Using a key stolen from one of the guards, he quietly unlocked the bedroom door and eased inside.

He was, however not expecting to see a mostly-naked youth tumble backwards off of the bed.

It took Daud only a second to take in the scene. The target was on the bed, showing all the hallmark signs of having been strangled to death. There was a whip on the floor by the bed, with blood dotting the dark marble. The boy, who had scrambled to his feet and backed away, was uncoordinated and weaving.

Daud crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed the boy's jaw so he could peer into his eyes. Yes, there were the dilated pupils of the very high. Daud had seen enough of that at the Academy to last him a lifetime. The boy tried to pull away and whimpered as his back hit the wall.

“You've killed a noble, and you're too fucking high to get out on your own,” Daud told him, giving him a rough shake to keep his attention. “You have two choices. Stay and die, or leave and work for me. Choose.”

The boy shuddered and blinked dumbly at Daud. Daud growled and slapped him, hard. The sharp crack echoed around the room, but didn't seem to ground the boy any more. Irritated at his own foolishness, Daud slung the boy over his shoulder and kicked the balcony doors open. He could hear a shout from the guards on the floor below, but by the time they came up, he was long gone.

***

Thomas woke up to a pounding headache, darting pain along his back, and a mouth that felt like something furry had died in it. He groaned, cracking open an eye and caught a flash of red. Someone was sitting in a chair next to his bed.

The events of the evening before came crashing back in disjointed fragments. The drugs he didn't want to take, the whip he didn't like, the prospect of more coin he could ever earn in a whole month's worth of work. Killing the bitch who'd hurt him.

The Knife of Outsider-damned Dunwall showing up. Rough leather holding his jaw. A deep, raspy voice. Raw, deadly power radiating off of the man. If events had been different, Thomas would have dropped to his knees and offered to worship the man's boots.

“You're a shit actor, boy. Get up.” That same gravely voice. Void, he was so fucked.

Thomas opened his eyes fully and carefully sat up. He had to take a moment to firmly insist to his stomach that he would _not_ puke on the Knife of Dunwall's boots.

“Since I expended considerable effort to get you out of that room alive, I expect you to pay me back,” The Knife of Dunwall said.

Thomas stiffened. He knew where this was going. As gracefully as he could in his current state, he slid off of the bed and onto his knees. Silently, he reached for the assassin's belt.

His fingers closed on empty air. Baffled, Thomas stared at the now-vacant chair. Slowly, he turned his head to stare at the horrified assassin now standing across the room from him.

“Sir?” Thomas croaked, grimacing at the wrecked sound of his voice.

“ _Not_... like that,” the Knife of Dunwall ground out. His ears had turned very red.

Thomas shrugged. While most men preferred his mouth, some did enjoy his ass more. It _was_ a fantastic ass.

“I won't do it without slick,” Thomas warned. The Knife of Dunwall made an interesting choking noise and his ears turned even redder.

“ _I'm not going to fuck you, either,_ ” the assassin yelled, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

“Wow,” a new voice said. A young, dark-skinned girl around Thomas' age came into the room. “Should I come back later?”

The man pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “Billie, please tell our guest that I'm trying to recruit him, not solicit him for sex.”

“Master Daud is trying to recruit you, not solicit you for sex,” Billie repeated obediently, grinning from ear to ear.

“I don't understand,” Thomas said, staring from one to the other. “Recruit me? To be an assassin? I'm a whore, not a--” He was going to say 'not a killer', but that wasn't true anymore, wasn't it.

The girl crouched beside him. “Listen, if you join up, no one will mess with you. You don't even have to have sex with anyone if you don't want to, and you'll get weapons and shit to make sure they know it. We also get crazy powers if we're good enough.”

“Billie,” Daud growled.

“No one will force me to do things?” Thomas asked.

“I expect you to follow orders and act in a professional and disciplined manner,” Daud told him. “But you will have the choice to leave if you want to.”

Thomas looked at this man, the first to not demand he pay with something he didn't want to give, and at the girl, who spoke with a gutterrat accent and easy camaraderie.

“I'll join,” he said. “I'll do it.”

“What's your name?” Billie asked.

“Thomas.”

“Welcome to the Whalers, Thomas,” Billie said, and clasped his hand.


	6. Gerome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome has no survival instinct

The whole mission had gone belly-up the moment he'd entered the warehouse. Where there should have been guards, there were none. There were, however, bodies. Some had been shot, others stabbed. It wasn't often that Daud arrived to find all his work done for him. Morbidly curious, he followed the signs of battle to a steamship. Inside the cargo hold, he found a man, greying, rangy and tattooed, crouched in front of a kennel.

Baffled, Daud let the door close. The faint click of the latch seemed to be all it took for the stranger to grab a knife from his side and whip around, flinging it in one, smooth movement.

Daud froze time, stepping out of the way. Secretly, he was impressed. The stranger had excellent aim for someone who was clearly acting on reflex.

“...Fuck me,” the man breathed. “You're the Knife of Fucking Dunwall.” He sighed, looking suddenly weary. “If you're gonna kill me, do it after I free the girls. I'm the only one who knows how to pick these fucking locks, and I ain't leavin' them here for more slavers to find.”

“Girls?” Daud prompted, watching the older man pick something slender off of the filthy floor and go back to fiddling with the lock. Apparently the man was a locksmith, a trade incredibly rare in Dunwall.

“Yeah. Was hired for some easy guard duty,” the man mumbled, clearly focusing on the lock. “I was steppin' out for a smoke, when I heard 'em discussin' some kinda deal. Turns out the fuckin' 'goods' was these ladies.”

“What did you do with the merchant?” Daud asked. Their target was supposed to meet in this warehouse. Daud had quickly accepted this contract. People who deal in the flesh trade were the lowest of scum to him.

“The guy who – there we fuckin' go! – who was tryin' to buy fuckin' people?” the locksmith asked, grinning as the lock clicked open. “I pinned him to the wall upstairs by the hand. He's still probably kickin', if you want him.”

Daud summoned one of his Whalers. “Go to the upper floors and find the target,” he ordered. The Whaler bowed and disappeared in a swirl of Void.

Meanwhile the locksmith was letting the occupants of the kennel out. Three girls, the oldest no more that her early twenties, staggered out of the cramped cage. They were filthy and clearly underfed.

“What did you plan to do with them once you freed them?” Daud asked, watching the girls cluster together in a frightened huddle.

The locksmith caught the girls' eyes and very slowly placed another knife on the floor. Then he stepped back, hands raised.

“Honestly?” He said. “I never expected to even get this far. They don't even speak Gristolian, 's far as I know.”

Daud shook his head. “I know a woman who will help them. She might even be able to get them home.”

“Who?” The locksmith asked suspiciously.

“Her name is Lizzie Stride,” Daud answered.

“Oh, that girl,” the stranger said, looking calmer again. “She's pretty fuckin' good to her people.” Then he turned and faced Daud directly.

“You gonna shoot me now?” He asked. Daud blinked. For someone facing his death, the stranger seemed strangely calm.

“Do you want me to?”

“Honestly don't much care either way, if you ask me,” the man said, meeting Daud's gaze evenly.

“I was actually going to offer you employment,” Daud said, leaning lightly against a stack of crates. “We need a locksmith, and you have quite a bit of skill with a knife.”

“You tryin' to recruit me or hire me on as a fuckin' chef?” the locksmith drawled, amused now.

Daud ignored this. He'd learn to speak with respect. “If you work for me, you'll get a daily ration of elixir. The kind that actually works. If you pass training, you'd also get access to the kinds of powers I have.”

The man was silent for a few seconds, studying Daud. Finally, he sighed.

“Well, I'm out of a job anyway,” he said. “What the hell. I'm in. Gerome Burton.” He held out a calloused and scarred hand. Daud took it in a firm grip.

“Welcome to the Whalers, Gerome.”


	7. Calla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The goat is not their fault.

Daud stared down the two idiots standing in front of his desk. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose to try to stave off the headache he could feel forming.

“Tell me again,” he gritted out, “why you've brought an armed stranger into our midst.”

“Calla here picked up a fuckin' table and flung it at my head,” Gerome drawled around the ever-present cigarette. “It was fuckin' beautiful.”

Daud eyed the woman standing next to Gerome. Tall, broad, arms and shoulders thick with muscle. He could easily see her lifting a heavy table and throwing it. The question remained, why would Gerome have seen that as a reason to try to persuade Daud to recruit her.

“We already have plenty of muscle here,” Daud said, returning his gaze to the insouciant Whaler. “You know that. So, what's the other reason you've taken her here.”

“So after the table, an' the bar fight, an' after three more pubs, we were pretty fuckin' soused, right?” Gerome grinned around his cigarette. “So we decide to have a little competition. My knives against her crossbow. Boss, you should see the kinda shit she was able to pull with that thing. Bouncin' the arrows off of shit like it was nothin'. Fuckin' amazing. Hit the target every-fucking-time! Even sloshed off her ass!”

Daud raised an eyebrow. The two were showing signs of a long night of drinking. And if she'd managed to win over Gerome in one night, she had to be formidable.

“Alright,” Daud finally said. “You've convinced me to give her a chance. Get through training, and we'll see about getting you a uniform that fits.” This was said with a pointed glance at the shirt that was clearly straining across her chest and shoulders. It looked suspiciously like Gerome's.

“I lost mine to the goat,” Calla explained, which, in fact, explained nothing at all.

Daud didn't want to know.

“I don't want to know,” he said. “Just... go and get settled.”

As they left, Daud heard Calla say, “A little grumpy, isn't he?” To which Gerome replied, “Nah, 's just his face.”

Daud let himself have a moment to despair. Those two were going to be worse trouble than the Twins. Then, moment over, he picked up the reports and got back to work.

Somewhere in the warehouse, a goat bleated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, Calla and Gerome become the worst of friends. They're best friends with each other, but get them drunk and something ends up on fire.
> 
> After this, the next time those two get drunk, Gerome ends up wearing nothing but boxers and five knives. Calla took of her pants in solidarity.
> 
> They name the goat "Daud".


	8. Munchkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Munchkin clearly has the Rat Plague, is dying, and is really quite gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALERT! YOU GET A TWO-FOR-ONE CHAPTER SEQUENCE!
> 
> Calla's chapter was really tiny, so have a smol gay son to enjoy with your beefy lesbian pirate.
> 
> Warnings for child abuse, suicidal idealization and internalized homophobia. Cedric's got some issues to work through, but damned if he doesn't get a loving family of assassins to help him through it.

Cedric Abraxus Tweedsmouth Hallsworth III was dying. For real, this time. Sure, he'd thought he was dying when he was shivering, cold and wet, in the rain on the trek between Whitehall and Dunwall. Sure, he'd thought he was dying even before that when he'd drunk too much moonshine. But this time it was for real.

He hadn't eaten anything beyond a few tins of whale meat and some stolen fruit in the last week. His once-fine clothes had been sold off at a fraction of the price months ago, and cheaper, longer-lasting clothing had been bought for too much. He'd had his money stolen nearly upon arrival by some hooligans in hats. Now he scavenged like the rest of the poor.

Cedric doubled over as another wave of cramps twisted his guts. It was the plague, he thought. Definitely the plague. He hadn't been bitten by any of the rats, but he was sure that was what was killing him. Cedric wiped at his eyes weakly, checking for blood. Nothing yet, but it happened near the end, didn't it?

He didn't want to become a weeper. He was so scared.

Cedric whimpered at the familiar churning feeling, the prickling in his jaw, and dragged himself over to the lavatory. His head pounded horribly. Cedric was fairly certain he was going to die of thirst, if the plague didn't get him first. He wasn't sure what was worse, to be honest. The cramps, the shits, the vomiting, or the fever that left him clammy and shivering.

He was so thirsty.

Cedric cleaned himself up the best he could and crawled his way out of the room. Fuck dignity. It wasn't like there was anyone there to see him. Except suddenly there was.

Two men in whaler outfits turned around as he dragged himself into the bedroom. Cedric took in the dark leathers, the blades in their hands, the masks. Fuck. They weren't whalers, they were Whalers. Capital W. The terrifying gang of heretic-assassins led by the witch, Daud. Well, now he knew how he was really going to die.

“Are you going to kill me?” Cedric croaked, flopping on his side in his nest of blankets. His throat was raw from vomit and dehydration. The Whalers exchanged a look.

“Uh, no?” Whaler 1 answered. The other, which Cedric dubbed Whaler 2, started to circle the room, looking into cupboards and through doorways.

Cedric made his most piteous face. “ _Could_ you? Please?”

“What? No!” Whaler 1 sounded appalled. His compatriot looked over at them and shook his head.

“...Is it because I don't have money?” Cedric whined. “You can, I don't know, pillage the house as payment. I'm pretty sure I'm going to die horribly anyway. I have the Rat Plague.”

The Whaler made an odd noise, likely distorted by the mask, hooked his sword onto his belt, and came over. Apparently, Cedric had been deemed harmless. He'd feel offended by that, if it wasn't so true.

A cool, gloved hand caught his chin and the blank mask loomed close. Cedric made a noise of discontent and batted awkwardly at the assassin.

“You don't have the Rat Plague,” Whaler 1 said. He sounded like he was laughing at him. Cedric peered doubtfully up at him.

“Are you sure?” He asked. “I feel dreadful.”

“Have you been coughing? Any signs of blood in your urine?”

“No!” Cedric said, appalled. “Not that the state of my urine is any of your concern, thank you very much.” He grimaced, hearing himself. “Sorry, I didn't mean to snap.”

“Apology accepted,” Whaler 1 said, and yeah, he was definitely laughing now.

Cedric narrowed his eyes at him. “Don't you dare mock my suffering,” he snapped, puffing up his – admittedly narrow – chest.

“I wouldn't dare,” the assassin laughed. He released Cedric to flop back into his bed-nest. “Listen, this place is good. You should stay here while you recover. It's rat-free, and since you blocked the door, the Weepers can't get in.” He patted Cedric on the head – rude – and unhooked a large flask of water. “Drink this, _slowly_ or you'll sick it all up, and eat something that's not rotten. Rulf!”

Cedric was about to inquire about that odd cough when Whaler 2 poked his head back into the room. “What?” Oh. Not a cough, then. Must be his name. Dumb name.

“Give me some of your rations. I know you've got them with you,” Whaler 1 said. Rulf grumbled and fished out some bread and dried fruits from his numerous pouches, and passed them over.

“Here.” Cedric peered blearily at the offerings. “You're clearly starving. Take a small bite, then sip some water, then bite, and so on.”

“Why are-- nevermind.” Cedric didn't want to make him change his mind. “I am in your debt.”

“Well, uh,” Whaler 1 said, shuffling awkwardly. “You're, uh, welcome.” Rulf snickered at him. “We'll be back tomorrow, maybe.”

“Rin,” Rulf warned. What followed was a heated argument, entirely in gestures. Cedric's head was pounding too hard to care too much about it, and fumbled at the cap of the flask. His hands were shaking too hard these days to be much good. Cedric wondered if it was because he was always cold now, or because of inadequate nutrition. When he looked up, the two Whalers had vanished.

*

Over the course of the month, Cedric met several of the Whalers. The Twins, had told others about the youth who had nearly died from food poisoning. Gerome made sure to bring it up nearly every meeting. Calla, too.

Every time a Whaler dropped by, they brought food. It wasn't much, but it was better than what Cedric could scrounge up with his little bag of scraps. Cedric made sure each time to thank them properly, and offer any help he could. Every time, the Whaler would raise an eyebrow (masks were removed, now), snort, or laugh, and wave away his offer.

It wasn't until the second month that Cedric found a way to help.

Gerome was lounging in a gangling sprawl over a chair, his ever-present cigarette dangling from one hand. In the other was a sheaf of papers, and he was looking increasingly frustrated by it.

“What are those?” Cedric asked. If it was sensitive information, Gerome usually made up something ridiculous like, “My Academy degree” or “My inauguration speech”.

“Some fuckin' choffer left 'em in a safe,” he said. “Thom thinks they're important and, 'cause he's an asshole, made me try to figure out what the fuck they're tryin' to say.”

“Are they legal documents?”

“Yeah, probably. Can't understand a fuckin' word they're saying.” Gerome slapped the sheaf of papers down in disgust.

“May I see?” Cedric asked. If they were legal documents, then he was probably the only one the Whalers knew with the schooling to translate the information.

Gerome shrugged and handed the papers over. Cedric scanned the polysyllabic wording and Old Gristolian with practised ease.

“Huh,” he grunted, handing them back to Gerome. “Whoever this is, they've been acquiring land in Gristol illegally. It's hidden under a lot of fancy words, but the techniques used are easy enough to find out. There's a few thousand coin worth of land you could blackmail out of this man.”

Gerome looked impressed. “Nice job, Munchkin.”

Cedric spluttered, indignant. “ _'Munchkin?'_ ”

“Yeah,” Gerome drawled, smirking around his cigarette. “'Cause you're so fuckin' small.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” grumbled Cedric. He wasn't small, he was fine-boned! Ethereal!

Gerome chortled, pleased. “Fuckin' knew you had some backbone in you,” he crowed. “I've been a good influence.”

Cedric grumbled more under his breath. Gerome just laughed at him.

*

Daud tacked up the picture of their new target in his office. The two nobles he'd met, a Lord and Lady Hallsworth, were the epitome of upper-class Gristolian snobs who looked down on the “common folk”. There was also something very odd with this contract. Most nobles seemed to prefer to polish any sign of deviancy from their only son and heir. If that didn't work, they quietly married them off and hoped for the best.

These had put a contract on him.

It didn't matter in the end. They were willing to pay lots of coin, and that was all he needed. After all, one noble was just like any other. He had plenty of blood on his hands already. What was one more life?

Daud summoned Billie to his office. When she arrived in a swirl of shadow, he held out the copy of the portrait.

“I want everyone to take a look at this,” he ordered. “It's low priority, but he is our next target if we find him. Have everyone talk to their contacts to see if they've seen him. He's a noble's son, so check the Golden Cat's ladies as well.”

“Damn,” Billie commented, looking at the picture. “He can't be more than fifteen years. If that.”

“Just get it done,” Daud commanded, narrowing his eyes in a glare. “We're getting good coin for this.”

“Got it,” Billie said, flicking a hand in a vague salute. She vanished.

Daud got back to looking over the current inventory of their supplies. They'd received a contract on Slackjaw of the Bottle Street Gang, and he needed to make sure they had enough fire-retardant material, since the gang was fond of using their distillery to make molotovs. He knew an outright assault on the stronghold was suicide, but it was always useful to look from every angle.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock at his door.

“Come in,” Daud called.

“Boss,” Gerome greeted, sounding cautious for the first time in the years Daud had known him.

“What is it, Gerome?” Daud asked. If this was another goat incident, he swore by the Void, he'd put Gerome on krust duty for the rest of his Void-damned life.

“It's about the target. The noble's kid.”

Daud felt rather pleased. He wasn't expecting to hear about that target this soon

“Report.”

“You can't kill him.”

Daud looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

Gerome seemed to hear the dangerous note in his boss' voice, but plunged on regardless. “He's a valuable contact,” he said, all the more serious without his usual vulgarity. “The kid has translated a ton of legal documents. He's smart, knows all the barrister terms.” Gerome met and held Daud's gaze. “If you go ahead with killin' the kid, you're going to have a revolt on your hands.”

Daud sat back in his chair, keeping his face blank to hide the surprise. “You've been giving him evidence against us.” It wasn't a question.

“Yeah,” Gerome said bluntly. “Listen, Boss. He ain't got anyone to talk to. He's helpless on his own, the Twins said he thought some simple food poisoning was the Plague, but he don't deserve to die. He's a good kid, we can use him.”

“There's a lot of coin riding on this contract,” Daud said, raising an eyebrow. While he trusted Gerome's intuition on recruits, having made excellent calls in the past, he did get irrational and protective over children and teenagers. “Take me to him. I'll assess his 'usefulness' on my own.”

A muscle in Gerome's jaw ticked. Clearly that wasn't the answer he was hoping for.

Gerome led Daud to a run-down apartment. In the topmost room was a terrifyingly thin boy, sleeping in a bundle of blankets. The most that was visible was the mop of blond curls. Billie was right. He couldn't have been more than fifteen.

Gerome slipped past him, heading for the bundle of teen. He crouched nearby, gently nudging the youth awake.

“Hey, Munchkin,” he muttered. The bundle stirred and groaned.

“Mmrgle?” It asked. Gerome's lips quirked in a fond smile for a second, making Daud reassess the teen's importance.

“The Boss is here to see you.”

The teen cracked open an eye and glared at Gerome, before transferring the baleful look to Daud. He could see the moment it registered who was standing in his home.

“Fuck,” the teen said, quietly, but with great feeling.

*

Cedric was going to die. For certain, this time. He'd been woken up, which was always terrible no matter the hour, and now the _Knife of Dunwall_ was standing in _his_ room, looking at _him_!

So, so dead.

“Hell-hello,” Cedric said. His voice definitely did not squeak like a terrified rat. He could face death with dignity. As long as he didn't need to stand up. Cedric wasn't sure his knees were going to work right.

The master assassin's eyes were piercing, even in the dawn gloom. Cedric felt like a mouse before a wolf.

“Cedric Hallsworth,” the most deadly man in the Isles said. Cedric had had dreams that started like this, but this time, he didn't think ravishing was on the agenda.

“Y-yes, sir!” Cedric stuttered. He glanced at Gerome, looking for some idea on what was going on, but his friend's face was impassive.

Daud crouched in front of him. Cedric fought back the instinctive cringe the assassin's broad frame sparked in him.

“I've been offered a lot of coin to take your life,” he said. Cedric felt like his heart was stopping as fear gripped it. “You're going to give me a good reason why keeping you alive is going to be more valuable in the long run.”

Cedric floundered for a second. “But, who-? I haven't done anything!”

Daud's head tilted, like an interested bird. “Here,” he said, without any emotion. A gloved hand thrust a folded bit of paper at him. Cedric cautiously took it and unfolded it, but couldn't see anything in the dim light. Moving slowly, he stood and shuffled over to the window to see better, making sure to give Daud a wide berth.

What he read made him drop to his knees.

“This- this isn't right, is it?” Cedric looked up at Daud and Gerome. Gerome looked upset, but Daud just looked vaguely angry. “I don't... I don't do this!” This time his voice really did crack. “I'm not some sort of-of monster! Why would fath- mo-. Why would they _say_ that?” Cedric could feel tears spilling from his eyes.

“This is fake. You're trying to trick me?” It was supposed to be an accusation, but his voice tilted up as a question before he could stop himself. Silently, Daud shook his head.

“I'm not some dangerous deviant!” Cedric yelled. He knew his parents didn't like his lifestyle choices and refusal to marry, but this was going too far. Despite their arguments, despite the beatings, he couldn't believe they had lied like this to make it seem... unless they really believed...

No. No, this had to be some sort of mistake.

Daud stepped forward and took the contract from his slack fingers.

“Cedric Hallsworth,” Daud read out, ignoring Cedric's sobs. “Three hundred coin for proof of death. Dangerous sexual deviant, kill from afar. Are you saying this is all a lie?”

“It's- I'm not- I wouldn't force myself on anyone! Please, believe me!” Cedric cried. “I- alright, I'm a deviant, I prefer men, but I'm not a monster!” Part of him was screaming that he was an idiot to betray his sexual preferences when begging for his life.

Daud grabbed Cedric's chin, ignoring his flinch and forcing him to meet his eyes. There was a long moment of silence as Cedric tried to beg for his life with his eyes.

After a minute, Daud sighed and released him. Cedric scrubbed at his face, trying to wipe the tears away. 

“I believe you,” Daud said. Cedric froze, staring up at the master assassin in disbelief.

“You do?” Cedric asked.

“I do. There is, however, still the amount of coin we're losing by letting you live.”

Cedric heaved a shuddering breath, forcing his mind to turn away from the gutting betrayal and on to a more useful track.

“You can say I died of plague,” he quavered. “I... Here.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out a necklace. On it hung a ring, the heavy kind that was used for seals. “This is my birthright. They'll believe you killed me if you give this to them.”

Daud took the necklace, holding the ring up to his eye. With a decisive nod, he tucked it away into a pouch.

“Gerome, take him back to headquarters,” he ordered. Cedric's head whipped around to stare at the older Whaler in shock as he bowed to Daud.

“Got it, Boss,” Gerome said, smiling just slightly. He walked over to where Cedric was sitting on the ground, still floating in a state of shock. “C'mon, Munchkin,” he said, gentling his voice. “Let's get you good and drunk.”

“Do _not_ poison our newest recruit before he even begins training,” Daud called, turning towards the window and slipping outside.

Gerome tugged Cedric to his feet, slinging an arm around him.

Cedric had no idea what he did next but it was a dizzying journey. When he was finally stable, he staggered out from under Gerome's arm and dry heaved a few times.

“What the fuck,” he rasped, horrified.

Gerome chuckled and ruffled Cedric's hair. “You'll get used to it.”

“Why would I _want_ to?” Cedric demanded, grief briefly forgotten.

“'Cause you're gonna be one of us, kid,” answered Gerome. “What the fuck did you think the Boss was talkin' about?”

“Why would you want me?” Cedric demanded, his voice cracking again. Void, he hadn't meant for that to sound so needy. He rushed to explain. “I mean, look at me. I have no muscle! I'm a- I was a pampered, rich noble.”

Gerome kindly ignored the stumble. “You just need some feedin' up.” He slung an arm around Cedric's neck and towed him down a hallway. “C'mon. Let's see if Cal and the others are up.”

Calla was not, but woke quickly to Gerome's exuberant greeting. It didn't take long for the Twins to show up bearing suspicious bottles of clear moonshine. Cedric could feel the skin of his throat getting stripped by the burn of the alcohol. One shot in, Cedric was drunk, causing Gerome and Calla to laugh uproariously at his failed attempts to manage tongue twisters.

Cedric blamed the fact his tongue and face had gone numb.

Numb face aside, he felt he might just live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cedric is the kind of person who will have two beers and be dancing shirtless on the table. He is the lightest of lightweights.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr as wittyusernamed for any prompts you'd like to give me in this 'verse.


End file.
